The Morning News
By Alberto Ríos
Seasons will not be still,
Filled with the migrations of birds
Making their black script on the open sky,
Those hasty notes of centuries-old goodbye.
The clouds and the heavens make a memo book,
A diary of it all, if only for a day.
The birds write much, but then rewrite all the time,
News continuous, these small pencil tips in flight.
They are not alone in the day’s story.
Jets, too, make their writing on the blue paper —
Jets, and at night, satellites and space stations.
Like it or not, we are all subscribers to the world’s newspaper
Written big in the frame of the window in front of us.
Today, we wave to neighborhood riders on horses.
We hear the woodpecker at work on the chimney.
There is news everywhere.
All this small courage,
So that we might turn the page.
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